


Triage

by irisbleufic



Series: Playing for Keeps [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Conversations, Awkward First Times, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Kissing, Awkward Romance, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Blood and Injury, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Jewish Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Comedy, Dental Jargon, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, Injury Recovery, Jerome Valeska Sucks At Flirting, Jewish Character, M/M, Major Character Injury, Meddling Kids, Medical Trauma, Murder Husbands, POV Alternating, POV Edward Nygma, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Parent-Child Relationship, Prompt Fill, Psychopaths In Love, Reconciliation, Recovery, References to Canon, Ridiculous, Season/Series 04, The Rogues (DCU) As Family, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-17 13:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14190156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Isn’t that heartwarming,” said a chilling voice from the hall, before Oswald could lean in and kiss Edward. “Kiddies’ games and a lack of trust. Whateveryfamily needs.”“Valeska,” said Oswald, stiffly, realizing too late that he’d neglected to lock the door. “What a pleasant surprise. You should’ve knocked.”“That’s what the cab driver said,” Jerome admitted conspiratorially, drawing a handgun from his jacket. He cocked and pointed it at Edward’s head. “So I knocked him out.”“We’ve met before,” said Edward, flatly, “in passing. That’s no way to treat an acquaintance.”





	1. A Few Small Repairs

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter subtitles from the ’90s-tastic “[Sunny Came Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfKKBDFCiIA),” which popped up on shuffle while I worked on this.

For Oswald, pitched to the brink of exhaustion, the moment tilted apart in all its strangeness. Third time’s a charm, the saying went, but did it count if the third in question was, once again, facing the time and place of your death? No, not the time. The time had passed, but the place remained a fixed point to which they’d swung back and back again.

Edward, bloodied and haloed in sunset, looked like he was about to be sick. Maybe he was, given the extraordinary amount of pain he was probably in. Past precedent with incidents involving Fish’s men had left Oswald with knowledge that the typical damages incurred at the Dentist required surgery. Extraction of lower back molars, what with crown, pulp, and root drilled to oblivion.

Oswald was trying to remember which on-call mob surgeon Fish used to have him fetch, and it startled him to hear Edward begin to speak. He glanced up, aware of how laboriously Edward swallowed.

“I have the strong desire,” he said, each word a shard of staid hope, “to never, ever see this pier again.”

“Oh, I agree,” Oswald replied, turning to lead the way; he’d recalled the surgeon’s name, and—

Edward’s grasp at Oswald’s wrist was sudden, _wrenching_ , spinning him inexorably back.

“We can’t leave like this,” Edward insisted, yanking Oswald close without any warning.

 _No, but we should_ , was all that Oswald could think as the iron-slick taste of Edward’s lips parting against his wiped the slate clean. He clung to Edward’s lapels, breathing harshly as he slid his tongue past Edward’s teeth.

“I’ve missed you, Oswald,” Edward gasped, arms wrapped so tightly around Oswald’s waist that seemed like a foregone conclusion when he hitched Oswald up in his arms. “I’d hoped…”

Hilarious, that Edward made no indication he was in agony until Oswald, unthinking, brought both hands up to frame his face. Edward’s jaw was fever-hot to the touch on each side, the sensation jarring as Edward wobbled forward to set him back on his feet.

“Your priorities are misplaced,” Oswald told him, easing off with a nip to Edward’s lower lip, entranced at how little they’d needed to say, “as usual. And no, I will _not_ let you drive.”

“Spoilsport,” Edward said, clapping a handkerchief to his mouth. It instantly soaked through.

“Is that mine?” Oswald asked vaguely, dragging him over to the car, opening the passenger side.

“Maybe,” Edward replied, comically surly, and proceeded to get blood all over the seatbelt strap.

Oswald hobbled around to the driver’s side, struck once again by their impossibly surreal circumstances. He slid into his seat, slammed the door, started the ignition, and promptly found his progress hampered by Edward leaning across the center console.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Oswald demanded, bracing a hand against Edward’s shoulder to hold him off.

As unbelievable as it seemed, judging by how Edward had dropped the handkerchief in his lap, he was after another kiss. And it was only _then_ that Oswald noticed the stab-wound that had ruined Edward’s trousers.

“Ed, would you care to explain the rest of your injuries?” he asked, staring at the stain, resisting the impulse to touch. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything. You probably don’t want to hear this, but you’re in serious need of medical attention. I’m racking my brain, trying to figure out the best one-stop-shop for everything that ails you. I have connections, but they’ve grown strained. _Well_?”

Edward sighed dramatically, indicating the bloody spot midway up his left thigh. “Scalpel.”

“Sit back, and let me drive,” Oswald demanded, putting the car in reverse. “Also the Dentist?”

“No,” Edward muttered, pressing the useless wad of linen back against his mouth. “Sofia.”

“Fine, that’s settled,” Oswald replied, his rage immovable. “We’ll kill her first chance we get.”

“ _Now_ ,” suggested Edward, his free hand creeping across the console to Oswald’s knee.

“While I understand that murder is your preferred method of foreplay,” Oswald said, irritated at his lingering arousal, “absolutely _not_. You’re in no condition, and neither am I. We need to get you treated and go home.”

What Edward said next was rendered indecipherable by his coughing on an excess of blood.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Oswald chided, wondering how he might go about what he needed to accomplish next. “You’re a nightmare.”

“Am not,” Edward choked, resorting to staunching the flow with his oddly pristine jacket sleeve.

Oswald pulled over the first opportunity he could find. He’d spirited the only potential weapon he could find in Lee’s office out with him, and it was a loaded syringe. It rested heavy inside his raggedy borrowed coat, nonetheless in a decent position for deployment.

“What?” Edward asked, lowering his forearm. He painted the handsomest horror-film portrait.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Oswald, invitingly, not sorry in the least for what he was about to do. He leaned across the console, reaching for Edward with one hand. “Come here.”

“Oh,” Edward breathed, sounding fainter by the second, leaning into the contact. “ _Oswald_.”

Oswald kissed him hard enough that it likely hurt, fumbling the cap off the syringe, grateful of Edward’s frenzied distraction. He sunk the needle in Edward’s chest, palm flat against the plunging mechanism, using Edward’s eager momentum against him.

“Ow! What the…” Edward gurgled in surprise, the sedative too fast-acting to let him finish.

Breathing unsteadily, Oswald remained there for a full minute with Edward slumped in his arms.

He glanced up at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, startled by the crimson smear across his lips and chin. He ought to have known that kissing Edward would carry such a consequence, but requited passion had left him indifferent.

“Now we’re even,” Oswald said at length, patting Edward’s cheek as he settled him back in the seat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Groggily, Edward struggled to open his eyes. He needed to ascertain his surroundings, but even the blood in his veins seemed to move with a sluggish, muted quality. Had he lost that much?

 _Oswald_ , Edward thought. _I was with Oswald, everything was just fine, and then—_

The ceiling overhead filtered into focus, high and stately with familiar embellishment. He turned his head against the pillow, startled to recognize Oswald’s dressing table and triptych mirror. Oswald’s bedroom was just as he remembered it, down to the last detail.

 _Well_. He’d brought that boy to the Van Dahl Estate earlier, as per Oswald’s instructions, startled to find it in a re-hired Olga’s keeping. He hadn’t stayed long, although he shouldn’t have been surprised to wake there given it was safely back in Oswald’s control.

Memories of helping Oswald to dress hit Edward as palpably as his nausea. He’d been offered everything, once, hadn’t he? Too frightened, too _stubborn_ to accept, he’d gone and risked it on a series of gambles that had gotten him nowhere. Humiliation, imprisonment, and grave injury seemed like fitting penance for his pride. He’d done his best to make it up to Oswald by refusing to betray him. He’d _tried_.

Edward closed his eyes again, too exhausted to question circumstance. What he’d felt hadn’t been panic, exactly, at the notion he’d been sedated and kidnapped again. Now, he felt calm. There were worse places he could end up, even in his present condition, than Oswald’s bed.

The stab to his thigh had obviously been bandaged, but touching the sides of his face produced puzzling results. Swollen, _check_ , but he couldn’t feel a thing. He opened his mouth, but local anesthetic, doubtless administered so that he wouldn’t be in discomfort on waking, made it tricky for him to tell what procedure had been done. He hoped he hadn’t underestimated the extent of the damage.

Edward stuck both index fingers as far inside his mouth as he could, performing a perfunctory self-exam. He was down two teeth on the left side ( _Numbers 17 and 18_ ), one on the right ( _Number 32_ ), and in possession of more tight, intricate stitches than he could count.

Pathways of bruised, collapsed tissue spoke to at least a dozen injections. The job was thorough.

Close to drifting off again, too lethargic to remove his fingers, Edward felt like a distant observer to the proceedings. Somebody sat down on the edge of the bed, took hold of his wrists, and removed them for him. He would’ve recognized that exasperated sound anywhere.

“Where,” Edward began, eyes fluttering open in surprise as Oswald—with stark, healing cuts on his face and his choppy hair still damp from the shower—leaned over him. He cleared his throat and tried again, distracted when he realized Oswald was wearing a bathrobe. “Where did you…”

“Find an oral surgeon on such short notice?” Oswald asked, leaning closer so that Edward wouldn’t need to squint, his breath warm and surprisingly pleasant. “Best not to ask too many questions.”

Edward nodded thickly, running his numb tongue over his stitch-riddled gums. “Gotcha.”

Shifting so that his legs no longer dangled off the bed, Oswald squirmed his way under the covers beside Edward. When his bare knee brushed against Edward’s, it was abruptly clear that neither of them was wearing much. Edward was in his undershirt and boxers.

“This will be easier on both of us,” Oswald said with curious detachment, “if you don’t speak.”

Edward just nodded in agreement. He’d been difficult at the dentist as a young child, and the removal of his wisdom teeth during college had resulted in his stitches being redone because he’d refused to either stop talking or eat as per the recommended guidelines.

That, and he didn’t want Oswald to be angry with him anymore. That above all else on earth.

Oswald set his palm against Edward’s jaw, the touch somewhere between examination and longing. He sighed and bent over Edward until their noses almost touched, and that required him to press so close down the length of Edward’s body that his state of undress was obvious.

“You wouldn’t give me up,” said Oswald, quietly. “Is it because you finally trust me, too?”

Edward nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the candid clarity of Oswald’s. He tapered off the movement of his head in hesitation, clutching at Oswald’s wrist. It wasn’t _just_ that he trusted him.

“Yes, but that’s not all?” Oswald prompted, brushing Edward’s cheekbone with his thumb.

Edward nodded again, twisting with a huff of impatience. He pulled Oswald closer, shivering uncontrollably at how the after-effects of general anesthesia seemed to amplify Oswald’s body heat. He never wanted to let go.

“I see,” murmured Oswald, his eyes slipping shut as he left a scorching, open-mouthed kiss against Edward’s cheek. “You’ve been—” he took a hitching, hesitant breath, trailing his lips from Edward’s cheek to the corner of his mouth “—so like yourself, so like I had _hoped_ —”

“Please, I don’t,” Edward begged, stiffening in apprehension, “want to discuss. That. At all.”

Oswald nodded, his eyes still closed as he slid his hand from Edward’s jaw down to his collarbone. He let his touch linger there, electric, before tracing from the hollow of Edward’s throat down to one fabric-covered nipple, brushing it, and then to Edward’s belly.

“Have you really decided that you want this,” he whispered, “after everything, even now…”

“Especially now,” Edward croaked impatiently, catching Oswald’s mouth in a clumsy kiss.

Oswald struggled out of his bathrobe like he didn’t need to be told twice, his hand finding the front of Edward’s undershirt again in no time. He rucked it up until Edward caught on and helped him wrangle it over his head, and then slipped a hand beneath Edward’s waistband.

“Oswald,” Edward breathed, squeezing his eyes shut as Oswald caressed the crease of his thigh with trembling fingers. He was hard already, had been almost from the moment Oswald first pressed against him. His erection brushed against Oswald’s wrist, the back of Oswald’s hand, impossible to hide. “I don’t think…I don’t _know_ what I…”

“You never know what you want,” said Oswald, with a hint of laughter in his voice, throwing back the covers so he could rid Edward of the garment. “Is that better?” he asked, tugging the covers back up when Edward shivered, putting his hand right back where it had been.

Edward twitched helplessly when Oswald closed him in his fist, the contact shockingly gentle.

“Wait,” he said, tugging Oswald’s hand away, dizzy with the drugs’ effects and with the intoxicating temperature of Oswald’s body as he hauled Oswald on top of him. “Wait, you’re…you’re hard, too.”

In response, Oswald’s befuddled expression bordered on ridiculous. But it faded as soon as Edward gave him a few loose strokes in kind, and then held him close. If he hadn’t been so desperately aroused, he might have considered dozing off again with Oswald for a blanket.

“Edward,” Oswald whimpered between one kiss and the next, canting his hips in slow, feverish circles against Edward’s. “I didn’t… _oh_ , I didn’t mean for this to…” He dipped to kiss Edward’s collarbone, making them both tremble.

“I did,” Edward said, far too enamored of how Oswald’s movements felt to change things up.

“That’s because,” Oswald replied, kissing him greedily, already losing what uncoordinated semblance of rhythm they'd fallen into, “you’re a wretched, impatient excuse for—”

“ _Ah_ ,” Edward hissed, tensing beneath the delicious, sudden brunt of Oswald’s full weight.

Everything he’d heard about sex on perception-altering substances was true, or maybe it was that he’d spent too long in denial about wanting Oswald. Even Oswald’s plaintive, endearing noise as he took his pleasure, too, suggested maybe drugs didn’t account for everything.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it? Indignation and perplexity so easily eclipsed by recollections of a time they could neither amend, nor erase? Edward’s pulse refused to slow even though sweat lay cooling on their skin as they breathed harshly against each other’s lips.

“Rest, my love,” Oswald whispered drowsily after a while, nuzzling Edward’s swollen jaw.

Edward nodded, knowing that this was the only form forgiveness had ever needed to take.


	2. Walking On a Wire

Waking with Edward cuddled against his back for warmth wasn’t the most unusual set of circumstances Oswald had ever endured, but it ranked high. And _endured_ was the wrong word, because Edward’s forearm low and possessive around Oswald’s middle felt like it belonged there.

How many times Oswald had dreamed of—no, had _longed_ for—this exact scenario wasn’t worth mentioning. Infuriating, to think that what it had taken to knock sense into Edward was a chain of actions and reactions that both of them would always regret. In spite of the love they bore each other beyond all earthly reason, would they always succumb to some irrepressible impulse to cause each other grief?

Oswald took hold of Edward’s wrist, tugging at it until Edward’s hold on him loosened sufficiently. He rolled so that they were face to face, lifting his hand instinctively to set it against Edward’s cheek.

“Hurts more,” Edward muttered, scarcely moving his jaw, not bothering to open his eyes.  “Lots.”

“Pills were included in the price of fixing you,” Oswald reassured him, softly kissing the corner of Edward’s mouth. “They’re on the sink,” he continued. “You want them now?”

Edward opened his eyes a fraction, squinting at Oswald for a few seconds before slotting their mouths into better alignment. The kiss was awkward, not least because Edward was aiming for ambitious and Oswald refused to meet him halfway with such recklessness.

“I have a lot to do today,” Oswald informed him, lingering over a cautious nibble on Edward’s lower lip. “My wardrobe needs some improvement, and—no, Ed, you may _not_ —”

“If I can’t go,” said Edward, with grating difficulty, “then you’re going to spend some time with me first.” He pinned Oswald flat on his back, breathing unevenly into the crook of Oswald’s neck.

“Whatever you want,” Oswald replied, irritated at his inability to resist the petulant warmth pressed all down his front. “How does this feel?” he asked, locking his ankles at the small of Edward’s back.

Edward swallowed a soft, stuttering moan and ground insistently against him. “Good,” he whispered.

Oswald nodded, sighing in relief, and latched onto Edward’s neck. The harder he bit down, the more urgently he sucked, the more frantic Edward’s movements became. Thrilling, to mark him like this.

“Touch me,” Edward begged, propping himself up, dragging Oswald’s hand from where it clutched at his hip to where his erection lay heavy in the crease of Oswald’s thigh. “ _Distract_ —”

“We’re going to work on your coping mechanisms,” Oswald said, unable to prevent a measure of dismayed affection from creeping into his tone as Edward showed him what he wanted. It was an easy pace, and the angle wasn’t as hard on Oswald’s wrist as he had expected.

“Oh, you feel, Oswald, _why_ ,” Edward whimpered, a litany that was equal parts pleasure and distress.

Oswald kissed him deeply, mindful of the stitches, and gave the head of his cock a merciless twist.

Edward collapsed against Oswald instantly, gasping, his every twitch and shiver obscenely perfect.

“Your turn,” he said a minute later, scarcely recovered, and licked his way down to Oswald’s navel.

“What are you— _no_!” Oswald sputtered, catching Edward by the shoulders. “Absolutely not.”

How Edward managed to look so debauched and so utterly put-out at the same time was a mystery. His beauty was the devastating, effortless kind for which wars had been waged and lost since the invention of human folly. Somehow, Oswald’s impossible Helen of Troy had come home.

“But I thought,” Edward said, pausing just long enough to prod at his left cheek. “ _Hmmm_.”

“Thinking is the opposite of what you did,” Oswald told him, easing Edward’s free hand into position between his legs, rocking into the touch as Edward’s eyes widened. “So stop, and just...”

Edward caught on quickly, stroking Oswald at a more insistent pace than he’d preferred himself. He kissed Oswald’s neck in kind, lingering over the single, stinging bite he left there, his breath hot.

“You can’t keep me here forever,” he said, his voice wavering as Oswald jerked helplessly against him.

“No,” Oswald moaned, arms wrapped tightly around Edward’s neck as he rode out his orgasm, “but, but I can—ask you to consider it. Nicely.”

Edward kissed him again, his lips decisively sealed, but there was nothing chaste about it. “ _Nicely_?”

“At least until you’ve recovered,” Oswald panted, blinking up at him, perhaps more pleadingly than he’d intended. “You wouldn’t last long in this condition. I can’t estimate how far you’d get, either.”

Memory flickered across Edward’s features, the fierce glint of a knife held to his unsuspecting neck.

“Fine,” Edward snapped, abruptly rolling away, dragging all of the unpleasantly damp covers with him.

Feeling unaccountably cheerful, Oswald got out of bed. Dressing without Edward’s assistance wasn’t going to be easy, not with all the aches and pains Arkham had left him, but knowing Edward was asleep in his bed was a reassurance.  Oswald set the vial of painkillers and a glass of water on the nightstand on his way out an hour later, leaving him with a reassuring touch between the shoulder blades.

Downstairs, Olga had already situated Martín at the table with fruit, a boiled egg, and some suspiciously sugary-looking cereal. The boy glanced up from his notepad with a bright smile as Oswald sat down.

The image that he held up, drawn in advance and with great care, took Oswald aback. It was recognizably Edward, bowler hat and all, but the expression Edward’s likeness wore was pained.

“Yes, Edward’s here,” Oswald sighed, helping himself to the tea Olga had brought out. “He’s unwell.”

Martín nodded, as if that came as no surprise. He flipped the page and scribbled in hasty excitement.

 _Edward = Riddler?_ it said, the slant of the boy’s handwriting a mirror for his quizzical features.

“I would advise you to call him Edward as long as he’s here,” Oswald explained. “Or even just Ed.”

Considering this, Martín took a bite of cereal and then resumed his pencil. _Make him feel better?_

Oswald sat back and pondered Martín’s statement in turn, reaching for the uncovered butter dish.

“That’s extremely thoughtful of you,” Oswald said, preparing a piece of toast. “In fact, you’re the only person I can trust to do it right. I’m going out for a while today, and Ed will be lonely. Can you do that for me? Make sure he doesn’t feel like I’ve abandoned him?”

Martín nodded somberly, writing out _YES_ , underlining it several times in a row. _I will_.

“Thank you,” Oswald replied, “because he’d mope or try to escape, or both, and we can’t have that.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Edward had pretended to doze while Oswald was in the shower, and he’d nearly drifted off by the time Oswald emerged and set a concerned hand against his back on leaving. Edward had slept, lulled into a sense of security by the gesture.

It was brighter by the time he roused again, the room bathed with that muted, peculiar white light that only Oswald’s windows seemed to let in. He sat up, reaching for the vial next to a half-filled glass of water. Heavy-handed symbolism, but his pulse quickened as he gulped it.

Edward’s first thought, once his head had cleared sufficiently enough to consider his options, was that he ought to run. He’d made a fool of himself, hadn’t he, assuming that physical intimacy would be sufficient incentive for Oswald to take him back? Swept up in the moment, Oswald seemed desperately relieved to have him, but how long could it last?

Edward showered and dressed in the only clothing that Oswald had left him, which was a set of pajamas. He was about ready to give up on looking for his glasses when he spotted them on the dressing table, and someone knocked on the door no sooner than he’d gotten back in bed.

“Breakfast!” Olga shouted by way of explanation. “Send it in, Oswald tells me, so you must eat!”

Before Edward could reply, the door opened, and it was decidedly _not_ Olga who bore the tray. Just as well, because the surreal, dreamlike quality of his present circumstances was nearly enough to make him wonder if the pain pills had induced a hallucination. He stared helplessly at his visitor.

The boy—dressed to Oswald’s impeccable standards, looking less frightened than the day Edward had rescued him—set the tray on the nightstand and held up the notepad around his neck. He tapped it.

 _Good morning, Edward,_ it said. _This is for when you are hungry. Oswald said you are sick._

Edward nodded, woozy as the pain pills roiled in his empty stomach. “You might say that,” he replied.

The boy nodded and handed him the spoon and bowl of cereal, and then flipped the page of his notepad. He scrawled with a sense of purpose far beyond his astonishingly young age, an insatiable inquisitiveness all too familiar to Edward.

_My name is Martín in case you cannot remember. Is it okay if I call you Edward or Ed?_

“I guess so,” said Edward, grudgingly enjoying his first bite of Lucky Charms in at least ten years.

Martín grinned, handing him the teacup next, indicating with a huff that Edward should blow on it.

“I get the impression you aren’t training to join the staff,” Edward said. “Why did he have me bring you here?” he asked, wincing when the first sip of tea stung his stitches. “Why do you stay?”

Tapping his chin with the pencil, Martín removed the notepad from around his neck and set it on the mattress next to Edward’s blanket-covered knee. He launched into an explanation that took several minutes to write out, holding it up for Edward’s perusal once he’d finished.

_Oswald saved me from somebody who wanted to kill us. He had to pretend to kill me to do that. He told me this morning before he left that she wanted to kill you, too. He said that she made the Dentist hurt your teeth. I do not think he should be called the Dentist, because a real dentist would not do that. The person I am talking about is Sofia Falcone, in case you had trouble guessing. I wanted this to be a kind of riddle. Oswald said you like riddles. Is that why people call you Riddler?_

“Yes,” was all Edward could manage around another mouthful of cereal, because everything about the process hurt. He was starving, and he’d been reduced to rushing, like a child, by marshmallows.

Martín touched the side of his own face mouthed _ow_ , tilting his head disapprovingly at Edward.

“Let’s keep this between you and me,” said Edward, putting the bowl on the nightstand, “but I think Olga’s still got it in for me. Otherwise, she would’ve brought something softer. What do you think?”

Shaking his head, Martín flipped to the next page and wrote, curtly, _She is very worried about you, but I think she will pretend that she is not. The cereal was my idea, because it makes me feel better when I am depressed_.

Edward raised his eyebrows at the precocious use of _depressed_. “Huh,” he said. “Is that so.”

Nodding, Martín hopped up onto the bed. He covered his mouth as some tea splashed Edward’s front.

“Never mind,” Edward sighed, deciding that the painkillers had kicked in enough to continue talking freely. “I should’ve set it down,” he said, shifting it aside. “Did Oswald put you up to this?”

 _I wanted to help before Oswald asked me_ , Martín wrote. _Does that make you feel better?_

“I think,” said Edward, slowly, “you’re an awfully nice person to’ve fallen in with the likes of us.”

Martín made a face at him, equal parts amused and patronizing. _But you’re nice_ , he scribbled.

Edward stared into the middle distance for a while, considering the panes of glass between the curtains.

“You know what Oswald does for a living, right?” he asked. “Given he pretended to kill you, I mean.”

The face Martín made next suggested to Edward that _he_ was the one who didn’t know anything.

“We tried to kill each other,” Edward said, twisting both hands in the duvet. “We weren’t pretending.”

Martín flipped to the next page, scrawling furiously, and shoved the notepad right into Edward’s hands.

_Oswald told me about you. He said you are incredibly important to him. That is an exact quote. He did not want me to tell you. He said he is sorry about what happened. I saw what Sofia tried to do. She lied to him and to me. She used us. You made each other angry, but I do not think you lied the same way. Lying to Oswald will make him hate you. But he trusts you. Do you trust him?_

Edward lifted his eyes from the paper, staring at Martín in shock. He nodded, fighting back tears.

Patting Edward’s hand, Martín took back the notebook. He flipped the page and wrote deliberately.

_Oswald said he has forgotten how to tell people he loves them. So he shows them instead._

“He told me, I think,” Edward said, recalling something from the edge of sleep the night before.

Martín smiled again, writing a little ways down the page, _He told me without having to say it_.

Edward gestured vaguely at the tray, grateful when Martín handed him several blood-orange segments.

“Oswald wants me to stay,” he said sullenly. “I know you’re content to be here, but, for me, it’s—”

 _Different_ , Martín wrote, rolling his eyes. _Yes. I know that for grownups it is different_.

Edward averted his gaze, stuffing an orange segment in his mouth. The juice ran down his chin.

“Oh dear,” he sighed. It was no hardship to smile at Martín, both hopeful and happily resigned.


	3. Home With a Vengeance

It had been unnerving, having run of Gotham without anyone to trouble him. Oswald hadn’t walked the streets alone since his time in Fish’s employ, not unless there’d been an emergency. Painstakingly on foot, or by the disgrace of dingy green cab, the city was still his.

Oswald hadn’t been in the habit of visiting hairdressers; he’d preferred having them come to him. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and the image he had in mind was rather specific. It was easy to edge your way into a booked slot with a popular stylist as long as you were willing to casually flash a switchblade when cash failed. _That_ shade of violet dye, he’d insisted, reminding her of the knife.

Oswald’s preferred tailor had recognized him and, thankfully, hadn’t made a fuss. He’d merely gone to the back and fetched the several pieces on which he’d been working when Oswald went to Arkham. They were finished, exquisite. He’d donned one set, had the tailor package up the other, and instructed the befuddled gentleman to dispose of the suit he’d worn there in whatever means he saw fit.

The ride home, his third of the day, passed in stony silence. Just as well, because the driver seemed to be on-edge. Oswald had caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror, fur-trimmed collar drawn about his neck. Too fragile, perhaps. If nothing else, he looked wan and severe.

As the cab idled, Olga met Oswald at the door. She studied him, nodded curtly, and ushered him in.

“Too pretty, if it is strong you aim for,” she said in a low voice, “but keep the coat. Edward will like.”

“I beg your pardon?” Oswald asked sharply, spinning on his heel as she made for the kitchen. “Olga?”

Olga shrugged, back braced against the door, pushing it inward. “Pretty, he will appreciate,” she said.

“Unbelievable,” Oswald muttered under his breath. He dispensed with his shoes, but kept the coat on.

Edward was on the sofa, in his pajamas and dressing gown, with Martín perched beside him. He was lost in the task of intricately folding a piece of paper torn from Martín’s notepad. That he was even _there_ , content to be complicit in the games of a child he scarcely knew, was a marvel.

Martín looked up, waving at Oswald, and held up something from beside him. It was a pair of Edward’s origami penguins, which Martín had colored with his pencil to look more realistic. The shadow of Arkham was never far from Oswald’s thoughts, and never far from Edward’s, either.

“How charming,” Oswald said, finding he didn't have to force a smile. “You’ve been busy, I see.”

While Martín nodded and began to write something, Edward looked up from his work in dismay.

“Oswald,” he stammered after a moment’s wide-eyed silence. “You— _ah_. That’s a look.”

Olga breezed back in and whisked the pair of empty ice-cream bowls off the coffee table, clearing her throat. She’d been right about how Edward would respond. So what. Luckily, she was both loyal and unrivaled in her capacity.

Martín held up his notepad, beaming expectantly at Oswald. _I like that suit. I want one._

“Then we’ll see about that next time I take you to town,” Oswald promised, setting his cane aside. He went to sit down beside Martín, who curled into his side with a sigh. “Long day?”

Martín nodded, propping the paper penguins in his lap. He tried to pretend he hadn’t yawned.

Edward had gone back to completing his project, which he finally held up for Oswald to see.

“Passenger pigeon,” he said, adjusting the delicate beak. “Or a mourning dove. Whichever.”

 _Those are not the same thing_ , Martín scrawled, holding his notebook up for Edward.

“No, but they look similar if you’re talking shape and profile,” Edward sighed, handing the bird to him. “Never mind. How about you color it like whichever one you like best?”

Martín nodded in agreement, clutching all three birds carefully to his heart, and yawned again.

“Olga, would you please take him upstairs?” Oswald called, cradling the boy against his chest.

Martín shook his head furiously, clinging to Oswald more tightly, and then flung himself into Edward’s lap so that he could do the same. The paper birds scattered between them in a crinkling flurry.

After a few seconds, Edward lost his startled expression and hugged the boy back. “Naptime.”

Martín stuck one hand in Edward’s face and—to Oswald’s shock, since he’d never seen this before—signed something. The same two hand positions, repeatedly and with insistence.

“I’m not an expert, but I taught him the sign alphabet,” Edward confided. “That’s _no_.”

“Yes,” said Olga, stepping behind the sofa, reaching over for him, “or no ice cream tomorrow.”

Martín twisted around and held his arms out to her, signing something else. Olga shrugged at him and swung the boy up in her arms, carrying him out as if he weighed nothing. Martín clung to her.

“ _Fine_ ,” Edward translated, hastily collecting the avian menagerie, setting it on the coffee table. “He still prefers to write or draw for longer communications, but it seems to have taken.”

“You’ll teach me later,” Oswald insisted, taking hold of Edward’s agitated hands. “I don’t want him to be able to slip one past me, especially not with you as an accomplice.”

“Isn’t that heartwarming,” said a chilling voice from the hall, before Oswald could lean in and kiss Edward. “Kiddies’ games and a lack of trust. What _every_ family needs.”

“Valeska,” said Oswald, stiffly, realizing too late that he’d neglected to lock the door. “What a pleasant surprise. You should’ve knocked.”

“That’s what the cab driver said,” Jerome admitted conspiratorially, drawing a handgun from his jacket. He cocked and pointed it at Edward’s head. “So I knocked him out.”

“We’ve met before,” said Edward, flatly, “in passing. That’s no way to treat an acquaintance.”

Jerome ticked the gun at him, as if he had a point, and lowered it. “I like you,” he said. “Polite.”

“Whatever your business is with me, keep it brief,” Oswald warned, inching closer to Edward.

Jerome’s quick eyes flicked between them, too canny for anyone’s good. His face split in a grin.

“Posh get-up, Mr. Cobblepot, if I may say so,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Is that for me?”

Edward, tense until Jerome’s last word dropped in the silence, leaned forward and kissed Oswald lingeringly on the on the lips. Hard-eyed as they drew apart, he turned to glare at Jerome.

“I don’t think so,” he said, voice laced with sarcasm. He swallowed thickly, a sign of pain.

“Sure you don’t wanna give me a shot?” Jerome quipped, using the handgun to gesture from his obnoxious lapels down to his regrettable shoes. “Flashy dressers do it for ya, huh?”

“I’d rather go back to the Dentist, thanks,” Edward muttered, impatiently catching Oswald’s eye.

“Eh, not my kink,” replied Jerome, with gleeful mock-apology, “but that could be arranged.”

“You do, you _die_ ,” said Oswald, viciously, his patience stretched to the point of snapping. He might have pulled his knife, too, if not for the telltale approach of salvation.

“Daddy’s a little possessive,” said Jerome, as an aside to Edward. “I get it,” he added, swinging back to Oswald with both hands open. “You could be there, too. Would that help?”

The click of Olga’s shotgun as she stepped up behind Jerome made Edward applaud in delight.

“Say what you want, clown man,” she said sternly, poking him with the barrel, “and get out.”

Jerome burst into subdued, yet hysterical laughter. He pocketed his handgun and bowed.

“If you would do me the honor of hosting brunch here in a week’s time, I’d be much obliged.”

Oswald glanced at Edward, an unspoken question. _What use is his mad rabble to us?_

Edward nodded almost imperceptibly, squeezing Oswald’s hand against the sofa cushion.

“It would be my pleasure,” said Oswald, thinly, waving toward the door. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks a whole bunch,” Jerome replied, following the no-nonsense lead provided by Olga. “You lovebirds have fun playing house. Don’t teach the kiddo anything I wouldn’t.”

Not even waiting for Olga to close the door on him, Oswald pulled Edward into his arms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Edward’s painkillers were wearing off, but they hadn’t faded so much that he couldn’t kiss Oswald for all he was worth. He wound his fingers in the wispy black fluff of Oswald’s collar, resisting the urge to laugh when Olga came back in, huffed, and walked out again.

“You might want to stay away for a little while,” Edward called after her. “I’m just saying.”

“I’m sorry,” Oswald mumbled at length, nuzzling Edward’s cheek. “I was gone too long. He had ample time to tail me and force his way into the cab while I ran my last errand.”

Edward just kissed him again, not requiring an apology in the least. He unbuttoned Oswald’s superbly-tailored new waistcoat and slipped his hands underneath, appreciating the heave of Oswald’s ribcage. Breathing and breathless, _alive_. If there was a chance he might get to keep this, to keep Oswald, then he was never going to pass up another opportunity to express his devotion, not as long as he lived.

“You look handsome,” Edward said, getting on his knees between Oswald’s spread thighs, running his palms up and down. “Powerful,” he added, unfastening Oswald’s trousers. “I like that. I always have.”

Oswald looked as if he was having difficulty breathing as Edward drew out his erection.

“Ed, you really shouldn’t—and, I mean, even once you can, you don’t _have_ to—”

“Ways and means,” Edward soothed, pressing a lingering, close-mouthed kiss against Oswald’s slit. He nuzzled and breathed there until Oswald’s thighs tensed beneath his palms, the entire line of Oswald’s posture quivering with failed restraint. “Being with you like this, it’s...”

“Ed, I’m,” Oswald choked, his eyes snapping shut as he slid his fingers into Edward’s hair, guiding Edward to press his cheek against him. “I won’t be able to— _Edward_!”

Edward closed his eyes, lapping at Oswald’s belly as he cupped Oswald’s twitching cock against the side of his face. Hot and shocking, but not unpleasant. Some of the mess ended up in his tongue’s path, so he tasted it with as much enthusiasm as he’d devoted to Oswald’s skin.

Oswald moaned weakly, tapping Edward’s jaw, turning the warning gesture into a caress.

“You never listen,” he said, but his tone, if anything, carried a faint undercurrent of praise.

Edward let Oswald guide him to his feet, all too willing when Oswald tugged him down to straddle his lap. He felt underdressed for the occasion, and maybe that was for the best.

Oswald stroked Edward’s thighs, once up and down, before leaning in to kiss him. He unbuttoned the front of Edward’s pajama bottoms and slipped his hand inside.

“I love you,” he said, the warmth of his touch turning Edward’s spine to jelly. “I never stopped.”

“ _Oswald_ ,” Edward whimpered, pushing frantically into Oswald’s palm. “You too. I never—all of those pathetic, _petty_ distractions. Should’ve had the sense to stop when I—”

“It’s all right,” Oswald murmured, maintaining the same perfect pace and pressure he had the night before. His right hand was gentle at the small of Edward’s back. “Ed, let go.”

Edward curled forward until his forehead hit the back of the sofa, panting. This was more than he’d hoped for. He stopped moving and clung to Oswald’s shoulders instead, letting Oswald’s impeccable attention do the rest.

“I want, _oh_ ,” he sobbed, his orgasm so intense it was almost unbearable. “I want to stay.”

“Good,” Oswald murmured, kissing Edward’s neck, easing his hand away so that Edward could simply enjoy being held through the aftershocks. “Martín will be thrilled, of course.”

“About that,” Edward mumbled, burrowing into the crook of Oswald’s neck, wrapping both arms around him to the point that he could no longer hide that the contact was as much for comfort as pleasure, “I’m not sure I ever...saw myself as parenting material.”

“He looks up to you already,” Oswald said, holding on as if he feared Edward might vanish. “It’s true that I...don’t think I can do this alone. I hadn’t planned on _caring_ so much—”

“Family is important to you,” Edward cut in, lifting his head. “I could see that from the start.”

Oswald bit his lip, wiping his fingers on Edward’s dressing gown. He took Edward’s face in both hands, his expression both apologetic and imploring. He hesitated, perhaps at a loss for what to say next.

“I wouldn’t expect you to assume the same level of guardianship or responsibility. I _couldn’t_ —”

“Let me be the judge of that, Oswald,” Edward said, terrified this was one thing he might not have earned.

“Forgive me for bringing this up, but I hope you understand my…significant reservations on that front?”

“I’m working on it. You said _we’d_ work on it. My coping mechanisms and my…impulsiveness.”

“I suppose I did say…” Oswald sighed and kissed him again, his concerned fingers still stroking Edward’s jaw. “Yes, that’s fair. Besides, neither of us is what Social Services would call ideal.”

“Martín cheerfully informed me that his idea of dealing with bullies involves setting their things on fire,” Edward went on. “He told me that was how the two of you met. By most accepted parameters of ideal, neither is _he_. We’re at least well-suited to nurturing his unusual proclivities.”

“Wait, are we…” Oswald blinked up at him in wonder, his fingers gone still. “We’re really doing this?”

Edward shrugged and asked, “How different would it make us from any other couple that recognizes getting their act together isn’t _just_ for their own good? Two separate days in this kid’s presence, and I already…” He swallowed. “ _Care_. Like you said. Besides, the Gotham that Valeska’s aiming for is no place for an ambitious child. Let’s hear him out, and then? Sabotage.”

“Couple,” Oswald echoed, glassy-eyed with what Edward could recognize as elation. “Your words, Ed.”

Edward kissed Oswald’s temple, serenely mussing the lone tuft of purple he found there. “No, _ours_.”


End file.
